


Visiting Hours

by PrettySami



Series: Bedside Manners [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Broken Bones, Hospital Sex, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-28
Updated: 2012-11-28
Packaged: 2017-11-19 18:20:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/576260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrettySami/pseuds/PrettySami
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is laid up in Bart's with a broken leg. While there he gets an intersting visitor...</p>
<p>Part of the 'Bedside Manners' Series but can be read independently.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Visiting Hours

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jenovasilver](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jenovasilver/gifts), [Ja9erz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ja9erz/gifts).



Sherlock shifted against the rough-hewn hospital bed linens. They rustled like dead leaves and paper,  
which is also what they felt like. He'd like to turn on the telly and at least disagree with the programs  
but the nurses had removed his remote seeing as he'd used it as a weapon. Against the nurses.

He'd broken his leg three days ago and since then he'd been the bane of their existence. Fussing when  
they came to check the cast, flailing when they brought him meals (this could've been avoided if they  
hadn't tried to make him eat as well), and throwing fits worthy of a six-year-old when it came time for  
sponge baths.

At first they'd tried coaxing him but Sherlock insisted he could do it on his own. The nurses assured  
him he couldn't, as the bandages couldn't get wet yet. A nurse moved to undo his paper gown and  
the resulting foray left the woman crying on her backside in the hallway, the remote tossed after  
her, and the television tray his food had been wheeled in on upended. The second time three nurses  
entered the room and pinned Sherlock to the bed while another one sedated him long enough to  
clean him. They were gentle, quick, and (to his dismay) thorough in their process. They beat a hasty  
retreat afterward, all wanting to be as far away as possible when the drugs wore off.

When night fell, a squat-stocky nurse came in and dropped off a tray of dinner then immediately  
turned to scurry towards the door.

“John,” Sherlock's voice was ragged from lack of use and the little nurse jerked at the sound of it. “I  
want to go back to my flat. John can look after me, he's a doctor.”

“Ah...Dr. Watson insisted you stay here, Mr. Holmes.” she smiled hesitantly over her shoulder and  
inched closer to the hallway. “Said this was the best place for you till you felt better, St. Bart's is the  
best around and all that...”

“John said...?” Sherlock looked momentarily stunned. John didn't want him home? Was it because of  
all the ruckus he'd caused when Mycroft had come to call during his cold? Really, he hadn't even shot  
him! It wasn't like Sherlock was a bad patient. Not really...was he?

The nurse had made her escape while Sherlock was being introspective. He pushed the dinner tray  
away and the wheels on the modified rolling cart squeaked loudly. He could make out the sounds  
of nurses wishing other patients a good night and shutting doors. However, no one dared approach  
his room. Word of Sherlock's behavior had spread like wildfire. And he was no more even-tempered  
for it, sparing only scathing words and overtly rude deductions for every doe-eyed, simpering young  
woman who tried to fluff his pillow or take his temperature. Sherlock simply wasn't having it.

No one came to shut off his light, which was just as well, seeing as Sherlock had no intention of going  
to sleep. When he'd heard the last tap-tap of low-heeled shoes fade away down the hall he sank back  
into his pillow to muss over why John didn't want him home.

But his thoughts were interrupted by another sound. Sneakers? A familiar tread but not that of  
anyone normally around at this hour. He sat up a bit straighter and cast about. Even the bloody flower  
vases had been moved out of his reach.

The familiar-unfamiliar tread drew nearer.

Someone was here who shouldn't be. After the three nights he'd spent here he knew who had closing  
shift, who always forgot her mobile and had to come back, who double-checked on their favourite  
patient before heading home. And this was none of those women.

“Strummin' my pain with his fingers, singin' my life with his words,” the lyrics to a BeeGee's song  
drifted into his open door and he knew instantly. James Moriarty. Clad in pale blue scrubs practically  
danced into Sherlock's room.

Eyes shut, hips swaying, “Killing me softly with his song,” he sang.

Sherlock couldn't help rolling his eyes. He folded his hands in his lap and did his best to ignore the  
other show-off. When Moriarty had finished the chorus he favored Sherlock with a grin. “Sherly!  
What have you gotten yourself into?” He dragged a rolling chair over from the other side of the  
room. “How are we supposed to play when you're all...broken.” he made a disgusted face and  
gestured to Sherlock's elevated and cast-covered leg.

“I believe our games are finished,” He started. It was Jimmy's turn to roll his eyes. “There's nothing  
you have left to harm me with. And unless you've got another innocent person with a bomb strapped  
to them I'll take this opportunity to wish you goodnight.”

James made a show of ignoring Holmes and rolled his chair to the foot of the bed. He pulled a Sharpie  
out of his pocket and proceeded to doodle on Sherlock's cast. “Sorry, Sherly, I don't do 'repeat  
performances'. Besides, the whole 'blowing up innocents' thing is soooo five minutes ago. No, I'm  
just here to pay you a visit.” He finished his drawing and smiled at the result. Seeing as it was on the  
bottom of his foot Sherlock would have to wait until he could get one of the nurses to hold a mirror  
down there.

James scooted back to the head of the bed and stood, posing like a swimsuit model. “Do you like  
my outfit? I would've worn one of the nurse's dresses but one glimpse at these thighs and I'd have  
everyone’s head's turning!” He seated himself on the side of Sherlock's bed, inhaled deeply, and  
sighed like a teenaged girl. Then he paused suddenly. He sat forward and sniffed the air. Sherlock was  
edging away from the man not wanting to make bodily contact with him.

“What's that smell?” James asked still sniffing.

“What?” Sherlock glanced around.

“It smells like...” his head swiveled towards Sherlock's utterly grossed-out face. “It's you! Oh but you  
stink! Don't they bathe people in this place?”

Sherlock's pale cheeks colored slightly. “Well, I would if they'd let me,”

James brought a hand to his nose for effect. “Sherlock, the ever self-sufficient consulting detective.  
Bo~ring!” He hopped off the bed and exited the room.

Sherlock heard the footsteps dying away and leaned back into his bedding once more. He lifted the  
neck of his paper gown (not fastened in the back) and sniffed. He could only smell himself...though  
there was the slight tang of sweat, and he was sure his hair could do with washing...

The footsteps started up again and Sherlock pulled the linens to his chest.

“Back!” sang Jimmy. “And I brought presents!” The 'presents' were a cloth, a sponge, dry shampoo, a  
brush, and a bar of soap all sitting in a plastic white bowl.

Sherlock glared at the items and then turned his disbelieving eyes on Moriarty himself. “No.” he said.

“Silly Sherlock.” Jimmy nearly giggled. “This isn't a request.”

He used the remote on the side of the hospital bed to lower it a bit, so Sherlock was level with  
his waist. He then sat the supplies on the bedside table and reached for the neck of the other  
man's Johnny-shirt. Sherlock jerked away almost immediately. “What?” James says, quirking an  
eyebrow. “Don't tell me you're worried about protecting your 'chastity'?”

The consulting detective gave him a look of pre-emptive violation. “Don't!” there was a glint of fear in  
Sherlock's eyes and it made James stay his hand.

He hesitated, albeit momentarily, then reached out gingerly. His moves were slow and deliberate as  
he extended his hand to Sherlock's vulnerable throat and tugged the gown away. He was staring, not  
breaking contact with the crystalline, nearly-colorless eyes. Neither of them seemed to be breathing  
and the woolly sound of the gown coming away was the only noise to be heard. Sherlock shifted,  
freeing his arms. Hypnotized by James' gaze he could barely spare a glance when the man made  
to drag the sheets from his lower half. James leaned forward and impulsively pressed his lips to  
Sherlock's. And didn't it seem like he did everything on impulse? Sherlock thought. Always teasing and  
niggling him until he responded...

James was standing suddenly (leaving Sherlock kissing the air for a few moments) and removing  
things from the basin. He placed them on the nightstand one by one, taking his time. He crossed the  
room to the little private bathroom and filled the plastic basin with water. He came back and lathered  
the soap enough to get the water frothy. He then dipped the sponge in and squeezed it till it was  
damp. He raised it to Sherlock's brow and drew a long stripe across. He re-dipped it and squeezed,  
rubbing and stroking Sherlock's cheeks, smirking when he closed his eye when he sponged too close.

He moved to the taller man's shoulders and brushed across his collarbone. Took his hands as he  
bathed his arms, brought a blush to his cheeks when he squirmed from his ribs being tickled. Felt  
his own breath catch when Sherlock inhaled sharply at the warm damp sponge as it went across his  
chest, leaving raised nipples in it's path. He came forward wishing he could straddle the man without  
disturbing his elevated leg. He let his eyes close and dragged his tongue around the flesh of the still-  
damp nub. Sherlock bit back a groan.

James smiled up at him, “Now now! No fair holding back! I make the sheet music you let me hear the

chords.” He nipped the pert and fully-hardned nipple drawing a light moan from Sherlock. “Much  
better,” he smiled more to himself than to Sherlock. He re-moistened the sponge and trailed little  
droplets of water as well as kisses down the flat, pale, stomach clean to his waist.

It seemed the nurses had relieved him of his pants and James Moriarty was met with the cock of  
Sherlock Holmes without preamble. The consulting criminal grinned up at Sherlock's glazed over eyes.  
Grinned at the state of him; already at half-mast and fighting it, clenching his fists, but watching all  
the while. James swallowed him at once, all the way to the hilt. Leave it to him to do something so  
deliciously unexpected. Sherlock yelped as if in pain but controlled himself enough not to jostle his  
leg. He almost shyly pressed a hand into James' hair. But things with his leg being as they were he  
didn't have enough leverage to push himself into the slippery warmth of James' mouth. He tried in  
vain to lift his hips a few times. After a few failures he whined pathetically and James had to keep  
himself from giggling aloud.

He lifted his head and licked his lips, pumping Sherlock slowly, the sponge cast aside; forgotten. “I  
hope you don't mind if I'm a little more thorough here...” He wrapped his mouth around Sherlock's tip  
and grazed his teeth on the sensitive underside eliciting a grunt and a feeble attempt at a thrust from  
Sherlock. He was getting closer and nearly sobbing with need. James was busying himself stroking him  
into his mouth and humming appreciatively.

Sherlock was losing it now, eyes squeezed shut fingers tugging at the bed linens and Moriarty's hair.  
James mercifully began bobbing his head up and down giving Sherlock just the amount of friction  
needed to send him spiraling into orgasm. He jerked and convulsed as his seed spilled into the waiting  
mouth of Moriarty. Pulse after pulse of come flowed forward and was swallowed eagerly by the  
criminal mastermind.

The world's only consulting detective looked at his enemy as he panted. “You won't...finish yourself  
off?” he knew the answer before he was finished speaking.

“Boring.” Moriarty said with a grin and stood suddenly. “Looks like visiting hours are over! Good night  
Lockie~!” He bade in a sing-song voice as he saw himself out of the room.

Sherlock felt, somehow, dirtier than he was before the 'sponge bath.'


End file.
